And A Little Child Shall Lead Them

For as long as I can remember, my family’s annual tradition was the search for the perfect Christmas tree. Each mid-December we would launch out on these quests, not for just any tree, but for the perfect one. A blue spruce, 7-1/2 feet tall, perfectly triangular in shape, trunk straight as an arrow, a single branch at the top, perfectly vertical, to hold the light-up star. In rain or sleet or snow we would go, as we were, with fevers, on crutches, armed with umbrellas or parkas, in the midst of busy holiday schedules. Each year my mother would move us from tree to tree, shush us quiet, and stand silently assessing each component of perfection, grading each tree in her mind, dismissing many, until we had the "perfect" tree. As children, one tree was as good as another to us, I’m sure, the quirky, fat-bottomed or crooked trees more endearing for their interest. But to my mother, the tree represented who we were, and what sort of Christmas we would have, and so it always had to be the best.

Now grown, with a family of my own, it is no surprise that the tradition continues. My husband and two children and I set out yesterday morning on our annual pilgrimage to find and cut our Christmas tree. We drove up into the hills of Shelton, to a local farm, recent snow blanketing the ground. The setting was idyllic, but we were feeling rushed, or at least I was, with just 10 days until Christmas and very little shopping, wrapping, baking done. To be honest, the Christmas spirit was lost on me this year. My heart has been heavy for so many reasons, and so I have let my intellect guide me through these last days, trying valiantly but in vain to muster efficiency when inside I am in utter disarray.

Last year's tree hunt went poorly from start to finish, resulting in a broken toe, a case of bronchitis, a shapeless tree too big to fit in the door or the stand, and lights the likes of which could cause a migraine in anyone prone to such things. It went so poorly, in fact, that we considered dispensing with the tree hunt altogether, and getting an artificial tree this year. Our children railed, though, arguing for age old tradition and all the trappings that accompany it. So on this blustery Saturday morning, we bundled ourselves in layers of fleece, pulled on our boots, drove to the farm, and marched through ice-covered snow like a band of soldiers searching for a fallen comrade behind enemy lines. We were quiet and vigilant, eyes peeled for a glimpse of the telltale peak of deep green that might be our tree. But every tree that at first glance appeared promising we pronounced too short, or too bushy, or too crooked upon further inspection. The tree on the hill craning its spine, its neck, toward the life-giving sun, or the tree that was wider on one side or the other. Or the one with two pointed branches at the zenith pointing in different directions, unable to hold a star. The scraggly tree, abundant but unbridled in shape. I’m sure there were natural explanations for those variations in appearance. But the fact remained, there was no "perfect tree" to be found in these acres of choices.

After a fruitless hour and a half, our children became bored and took to playing. The endless crunch of boots in ice-glazed snow was punctuated by their rowdy shouts and giggles, snowball fights and snow-eating contests. Quite frankly, their fun annoyed me. I was goal-oriented, driven, on a schedule, in no mood for distraction or nonsense. I stood there feeling the cold on my face, checking my watch, waiting for them to be done playing so that we could move on. The day was getting away from me. The time was marching forward toward the holiday finish line and this one item was no closer to being marked off my list. Eventually, with prodding, we moved on.

Halfway through the fifth grove of pines, we spotted a small barnyard, and we took a break to commune with two calves, a handful of goats, and a hutch full of bunnies. My children frolicked and laughed, talked to the animals and fed them snow. At first I was impatient with the delay, but after a few moments, something kicked in, and I began to see the scene that was unfolding in front of my eyes, feel it for what it was. Their joy in this day, all of it, the search, the snow, the animals, was more than visible, it was palpable. My children were making the most of this family tradition, of the time they were given. They had been all along, as I’m sure we all did as children. Somewhere along the way I had lost that joy, even the memory of it, so that all that was left was the stress and imperative fight for perfection of it all.

In age, I was becoming my mother, or perhaps just becoming an adult in the most cynical, if practical, model of adulthood. My thoughts turned then to a great many things, but mostly to the idea of what defines perfection. I pondered the commercial definition of perfection in trees that flies in opposition to perfection in nature. I moved then to the imperfection of that purported childbirth in a stable on which this holiday is based, that suggests that greatness can be born in any setting. Finally, I arrived at the imperfection of the human spirit that defines us. Christians believe that Jesus, the child of that stable, died for our communal imperfection. I’d rather not look on it as imperfection. I think we’re more like trees, actually, diverse in the appearance of our bodies and spirits, perfectly suited for our natural environments, each craning our necks toward the sun, in whatever form that takes. It took my children’s steadfast oneness with the world, their utter joy in it, to make me see these truths.

For whatever reason, the day became warmer there by the stable, and I was suddenly aware of the beauty that surrounded me, in this place, this time. I lifted my head, turned my cheek toward the December sun. Perfection is overrated. Beauty is everywhere.